


we used to be on fire

by sabinelagrande



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Dancing, Episode: s02e04 Face My Enemy, F/M, First Time, Flashbacks, Oral Sex, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 14:52:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2432792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things used to be very different. Sometimes it was better. Sometimes it was worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we used to be on fire

This was the absolute definition of a choice mission.

When they got the assignment, Melinda was still pulling pieces of dried mud out of her hair; there was absolutely no planet on which hiking fifteen klicks through the woods in the pouring rain to meet an extraction team that was two hours late counted as a fun time. She'd done it, and she hadn't complained, but she hadn't exactly loved it.

But this mission was what she deserved after that. This mission involved no hiking whatsoever. This mission involved blending in at a resort full of rich people; it involved lots of good food, parties, social intrigue, and warm weather.

Melinda might even wear a bikini.

When she walked out to meet him, her partner was leaning back against a red Ferrari, looking damn good in a gray suit and black shades.

"You ready?" Phil asked, straightening his cuffs.

Sometimes she loved her job.

\--

"I miss Lola," Phil says, carrying his suitcase into their hotel room and setting it down next to the wall. "It's not the same when we have to show up in a rented Volvo."

Melinda throws her own suitcase onto the bed, opening it up; she pulls out her icers, checking them over carefully. She knows there's more of this monologue, because she's heard it several times.

Today.

"I mean, we have enough in the budget to get it fixed, right?" he says. "It's a piece of SHIELD history. Of course, I don't actually know who we'd get to work on it. It's hard enough to find a mechanic for a vintage car as it is. But surely Mack can-"

She's tuned him out. She's watching his hands shake as he opens his suitcase.

\--

Phil leaned over to her at dinner, smiling secretively. "The target has six bodyguards," he whispered, making it sound like he was saying some sweet, sexy thing you'd say to your wife on your honeymoon.

Melinda grinned at him. "Seven," she said, in the same intimate tone. "There's one on your six o'clock."

"You think they've noticed?" Phil asked.

"Not that I can tell," she said. "The one on your three has looked over here a couple of times."

"I saw," he replied. "Ninety percent sure he's looking at you, for reasons that have nothing to do with why we're here."

She put a hand on his thigh, sliding it upwards. "So what's the plan?"

"Look as much as possible like we want to tear each other's clothes off, then make a break for it?" Phil offered.

"Sounds like a good plan to me," Melinda said. "But you're not tearing my clothes off."

"I said 'want'," he pointed out, winking at her before he went back to his dinner. She rolled her eyes, but she slipped her hand into his where it rested on the table.

\--

There's barely enough time to get dressed and make their room look like they intend to stay before they have to leave for the party. Phil averts his eyes as she tucks two folding knives into her bra; it is extremely uncomfortable, but she's not entirely sure a knife on a garter won't be visible. Why Phil decided it was a good idea to let Skye go clothes shopping, she'll never fucking know.

\--

Phil was already working on his tie when she came out of the bathroom to grab her dress. She was very aware that he snuck a look, but she didn't exactly feel terrible about that.

"If we were a real couple," Phil said lightly, looking back at the mirror, "this is where I'd nag you about not being ready on time."

"If we were a real couple," she replied, stepping into her dress and shimmying it up, "we wouldn't make it out of the room."

He looked her over again. "You're right. I'm not that big on dancing."

\--

In the elevator, Melinda shuts her eyes for a moment, centering herself. She hates undercover work for a reason; falling into somebody else's head is a risk she can't stand taking. Handling her own is trouble enough.

When she opens her eyes, she smiles at Phil. "Don't look at me like that," she says, though she doesn't break character.

"How am I looking at you?" Phil asks.

"Don't look at me like you know how much I don't want to be here," Melinda says.

"I wasn't going to," he assures her. "Look on the bright side."

There's a pause. "Are you going to tell me what it is?" she prompts.

"As soon as I figure it out, I'll let you know," Phil says.

The doors open.

\--

This particular party, the important one, was in the Grand Ballroom; it didn't quite live up to its name, because this place was all new money. Old money was simpler, because they already knew all the players, had files on them that stretched back for decades. This was different.

She smiled at Phil, ignoring the looks from the crowd. This was a challenge.

\--

People are looking at them as they step in, and Melinda registers all of them, perfectly aware that you can never know which one of them is a threat, not until they turn on you. She knows that they're dressed to catch attention and that it's working, but that doesn't mean she enjoys it.

"Relax," Phil says, taking her hand, and for some reason, right now he actually looks like he might be. She has no idea why.

\--

"You look nervous," Phil said, as they made their way onto the dance floor. "Don't be."

"You know I dropped dance because I was failing it, right?" she said, placing her hands in his.

"You were failing it because you never went," he reminded her. "You would have knocked it out of the park if you'd stayed. You always do."

"I'm flattered," she said, "but you never actually saw it. It wasn't pretty."

\--

Their movements are practiced, performed by rote. Melinda's not sure how good of a job they're doing, but that's not important. It doesn't have to be good; it just has to be done.

He smells really fucking good, and it is so goddamn distracting.

He notices when she misses a step.

\--

She knew he was talking to keep her mind off her feet, but it was doing the job. It was easier when she wasn't paying attention, when she could fall in with him, just let it come natural. It made it easier to keep her eye on the rest of the ballroom, too, though it didn't matter much. New money meant green guards, and every one of them might as well have been wearing targets on their backs.

\--

"When can we get the fuck out of here, sweetheart?" she says, smiling at him.

"Is it really that terrible?" Phil asks.

"You're not the one in the dress cut up to her ass, who's here on a favor even though she hates undercover work," Melinda reminds him.

"I think that's better for everyone," he says. "Silver's just not my color."

\--

It took half an hour on the dance floor to determine the guards' movements and schedules, ten minutes to get in and get the data, and five minutes to get stuck on a guest floor with blocked exits.

Melinda looked down the hall. "Got it," she said, spotting a cracked door with a housekeeping cart in front of it. She opened the door wider, then slammed it as hard as she could.

"Step two," Phil said, and they made for the window at the end of the hall. He boosted her onto the sill, and she wrapped her leg around his thighs, her dress riding up as she dragged him in, grinning at him before she kissed him.

\--

Of course there's a laser grid. There's always a fucking laser grid, even though they're wildly impractical. Just about anything can trigger one, and a well-placed projectile is, all too often, the only thing you need to take one down.

Melinda walks right through it. She's too old for this shit.

\--

Their pursuers charged into the hallway, drawn by the noise. "There," one of them said, pointing to the door Melinda had helpfully closed for them.

"You two," one of them snarled, and Phil whirled around, feigning shock. "Get the fuck out of here."

Melinda grabbed Phil's arm, rushing into the stairwell. They pounded down the stairs, escaping through the emergency door.

"One more thing to worry about," Phil said, as the alarm went off.

"For them," Melinda said, grinning. "I'll signal extraction."

"I'll pack," Phil said. She gave him a look. "I'm not leaving perfectly good clothes if I can avoid it. Have you seen my salary?"

She took his hand, and they walked back to their room; she could still taste him on her lips, but she wasn't concerned about it. It was all just good clean fun.

\--

Phil is tired by the time they make it back to the Playground. The plane almost blew up, Melinda is- though she's not going to say it out loud this time- annoyed by how the mission went down, and Skye is giving him looks again, the ones that say she knows he's keeping things from her.

Phil wants to tell her to join the club.

He's standing by his bed, seriously considering just going to sleep in his clothes, when Melinda walks in. She looks like she's about to tell him something, like she has something to say that she needs him to hear. He can see the moment where she decides not to say it, but he's not expecting her to step into his space; he's completely thrown when she pulls him down and kisses him. It's hard, demanding, packed with meaning, things that he thought weren't going to come out. Apparently now is the time.

He puts his arms around her, holding her to him; he should probably stop this, because it's probably a bad idea. Unfortunately, he really, really wants it, so the chances of him making any good choices right now are very slim indeed.

"I seem to remember you saying something about nostalgia and reality," he says when they part, out of pure masochism.

"Do you remember us fucking?" she asks, looking unamused. "Because I don't."

"That's not exactly what I meant," Phil tells her.

"Here's what the reality is," she says. "We're old. You're sick. We're outnumbered and outgunned."

"Is this the 'no regrets' speech?" Phil asks, wincing.

"Do you have a problem with the 'no regrets' speech?" she says, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't know," he replies. "It depends on if it's 'we'll regret it if we don't' or 'we'll regret it if we do.'"

"Don't interrupt me again, or you're not getting a speech at all," she warns him.

"Understood," he says.

"When we were younger, I thought we had forever," Melinda says. "Now I know that we don't. I'm not doing this because I changed my mind or I came around. I'm doing it because I had my chance before and didn't take it. I should have."

"I'm glad you didn't," Phil says, and Melinda does not look pleased. "You know it wouldn't have been like this. It wouldn't have meant anything."

Phil realizes he may have just made a horrible error in judgment. She never actually said that it means anything now; there's a good chance she's about to roll her eyes, call him an idiot, walk out on him.

Instead, she shrugs. "Maybe," she says. "There's no point in focusing on what could have happened. Nothing about now would be the same if we had."

He realizes that they're still very close together, that he still has his arms around her, that she hasn't pulled away. "So what do you want to focus on?" he asks.

She rolls her eyes. "Coy doesn't look good on you," she tells him, kissing him again. She walks him backwards a few steps, until his calves hit the edge of the bed; he's more or less expecting her to push him, but he still lands with an _oof_ when she does it. She climbs on top of him, straddling his thighs, and he kisses her, tangling his hand in her hair, not letting her go. 

He has plenty of his own to say.

They have been waiting almost thirty fucking years for this to happen, so they can probably be forgiven for how quickly it turns desperate, heated. Phil is pretty sure he's never gotten this hard this fast in his entire life, which is pretty impressive at his age. If the way she's moving is any indication, she's just as far gone as he is. She pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it away before she starts kissing her way down his neck, biting down on his shoulder and sucking; not to be outdone, he slides his hand up her stomach, underneath her top. He quickly discovers she isn't wearing a bra- isn't that such a great thing to discover? Phil's a big fan- and his fingers find her nipple, toying with it until she moans against his skin.

Melinda breaks away from him sharply. "Please," she says, sounding wrecked. " _Please_ tell me you have condoms."

Phil groans, and not in a good way. "Shit," he says, resting his forehead against her shoulder. "I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting to need any."

"Then you better come up with a plan," she says, grinding against him. "Because I want you, and I intend to get you."

"Plans I can do," Phil says quickly, pushing her off him, maneuvering them so she ends up on the bed, with Phil kneeling between her legs. "I'm a planner."

She lets him guide her onto her back, reaching down to undo the drawstring of her own pants. "Then what have you got?" she asks, as she's pushing them down her legs.

Phil gladly takes over, tugging them off and getting rid of them. "I'm happy to provide a demonstration," he says, bending down to kiss her as he slips his hand between her thighs, rubbing her through her panties. She moans into his mouth, grinding against his hand; she's so hot, so wet that he can feel it through the fabric, and he wants her so fucking much he doesn't even know what to do. 

He lets her go, hiking her legs up so he can pull her panties off. When she's finally naked, he pushes her thighs apart, spreading her open; he doesn't waste a second, just bends down and licks her, his tongue flicking over her clit. She tastes fucking amazing, and all he wants is more of it. He delves into her with his tongue, trying to get it, as much as he can handle and then some. Her fingernails dig into his scalp when she holds him in place, but he doesn't care. He's not going anywhere, not when he can have this, not when he can do this for her, to her, when it's right here for him to have.

She's so wet that she's practically dripping, and it's getting all over his lips, his chin, his face. He wants that, wants her on him, wants to feel it, taste it, smell it. He could not possibly get enough of her, but then again, he's known that for a long time. She's grinding against his face now, and he doesn't make any effort to stop her, just opens his mouth and holds on, lets her rub against him, thrusting against his face. He has no interest in leaving, doesn't want anything but this, to get her off again and again, to let her have him.

She's getting close, her hand gripping his head so tightly that it actually kinda hurts. He doesn't complain, doesn't stop, just reaches for it, chases it, pushes her on. She moans loudly, and he knows he's hit it right, they're almost there; he licks her again and she comes, shouting, holding her to him, working her hips.

She doesn't let him go, so he doesn't stop, just keeps on giving it to her, everything that he has to give. It takes longer for her to come this time, but that only means he gets more, doesn't have to give it up. He just keeps right on at it, and then she's there again, shuddering, panting; she collapses back against the bed, batting his head away.

"C'mere," Melinda says hoarsely, and he goes, lying down beside her. It's honestly a little painful when she kisses him, because his tongue hurts way more than he expected. When she pulls away, she gives him this look, and he knows she can tell.

"Overzealous," Phil says.

He groans when she wraps her hand around his cock; somehow he'd forgotten how fucking hard he was, but he's very rapidly remembering. "I prefer to think of it as demonstrating an appropriate level of enthusiasm," she says, sitting up. He wants to protest- a lot- when she takes her hand off him, but now she's getting on her knees beside him and unbuttoning his pants, and that is a thing he is totally okay with.

He bites down hard on his knuckle when she takes him into her mouth; it's that or bring the whole base running, because it feels so goddamn good that it's entirely possible he might die in the next five minutes. He's pretty sure it would be an awesome way to go, though. She's taking him deep, working her tongue against the underside of his cock, and he can't take his eyes off her, her face, his cock as it disappears between her lips.

He's so close that he can't stop making noise, can't help moving to get more of her mouth, has to fist his hands in the sheets so he won't grab on. Suddenly she flicks her eyes up, staring at him as she takes his cock down, and he comes like she hit a fucking switch.

Now it's his turn to collapse, and she settles in next to him, resting her head on his arm. He kisses the top of her head, the only place he can reach without moving, which he really doesn't intend on doing for a while.

She turns towards him, draping her arm across his stomach. "Next time," she says, and he loves the sound of those words, "we're getting condoms."

"C'mon," he says. "I thought we did pretty okay for ourselves."

"Never said we didn't," she tells him, pressing against him. "But I still want you to fuck me."

"We need one of those jars," he says, with a yawn. "You know, the big jar of 'no questions asked' condoms they put in doctors' offices."

"Intending to go through a whole jar?" she asks, amused.

"I'm pretty sure I'd die of exhaustion before we got to the bottom," he says, shutting his eyes. "I figured we'd share them with everybody else."

"Are you falling asleep?" she asks.

He opens his eyes again. "Are you gonna leave if I do?"

She smiles fondly at him, and he could stand about a billion more of those. "No."

"Then yeah," he says, pulling her closer. "I'm pretty sure we could both use a nap."

She smiles, shutting her eyes, and he falls asleep to the sound of her breathing.

\--

The mission lasted a full week, and Phil got used to it, the feeling of someone's body close to his in bed, the little movements, the incidental touching. It was annoying after he got back, always seemed to leave him restless for a night or two.

He punched his pillow up, rolled over, and tried to sleep again. He was still tired in the morning, and even though it wasn't her fault, it was hard not to blame her.

Or miss her.

\--

He wakes up to her curled up next to him, still holding him, not an inch further away than when they went to sleep.

Seems like a good way to start.


End file.
